Relinquishment
by graver
Summary: Based on the movie The Prophecy: Forsaken. For those who haven seen the last two sequels: these have very little to do with the original. Plot: Postmovie. Freedom comes by learning to let go... Allison and Riegert are facing their own ultimate trial.
1. Chapter 1

**Relinquishment**

"Prophecy: Uprising" and "Prophecy: Forsaken" Post-movie.

**Disclaimer**: Allison and John Riegert belong to Dimension Films. I don't own anything from "The Prophecy" movies.

* * *

The late autumn breeze served its particular scent to the nostrils – a delicate blend of mouldy leaves and chilliness with the hint of the possible first snow. However, the land lay bare beneath the heavy overcast sky. Wind rustled with the remnants of foliage, which, having avoided the garbage collector, now refused to stick to the ground. On such a day the passers-by would not bother to avert their eyes from the puddly pavement, but leave you enough of privacy to pass unnoticed along the grey-shaded alleys. 

Allison noticed numerous black birds, jackdaws – she was not be sure, though – crossing the sky above, gathering together on the rooftop. Despite being most unusual during this time of the year, they seemed ominous in an inexplicable way. She halted, regardless of being a hindrance to the flow of pedestrians, and gazed back, mesmerized by the hidden meaning. The birds were raucous, perhaps due to the anticipation of further cold. The crowd streamed past her smoothly like any random obstacle.

Having reached a nearby park, she occupied a whole bench by sitting in the middle. She had no interest in company at the moment, nor should she have expected any – the place seemed depopulated save some solitary wanderers like her. She reclined, tucking hands deeper into the pockets of her overcoat. Peering at the strollers over her abundant woollen scarf she skimmed the surrounding for intruders. A crow landed close by and fixed its intense gaze on her, causing further discomfort. She closed her eyes. The sense of foreboding was rapidly flooding the surroundings and reached its ulitmate concentration point at the back of her mind, sending shivers down her spine. There was an irrefutable awareness of something… being... here.

"You have keen senses for a mortal."

She opened her eyes with defeated realisation.

Behind her back, no one but the very First Angel could have spoken in this entrancing voice. He was balanced perfectly on the narrow limestone barrier with his palms clasped, leaning close to her ear. She recognized him without turning.

"You don't seem too excited for a meeting with an old acquaintance," he teased.

She glanced over her shoulder in search of his eyes, only to find the ever present smug on his face.

"I didn't expect to see you," she paused, swallowing 'anymore', "…here."

"Convalesced well from your last assignment?" A note of interest, rather than care lilted in his voice.

"Physically," she responded.

"Good."

There was a moments' silence, a span of time given her. She hung on to it. Distant cawing implied the crow had left the park. The sound of dry leaves rattling accompanied another gust that hit her cheek. Allison tilted her head, burrowing her chin deeper into the muffler. She pondered, unable to see the reason he would appear after all these months, now that she had already given up everything.

He inclined even closer, the words practically brushing against her neck. "You should know, Allison: it's a life sentence."

She stirred with an impulse of unease and turned to argument. There was but void space separating her from the sempervirent hedge.

The park seemed to slowly regain its inhabitants now that the adversary had left its grounds. Allison rose and set off for home – the first floor apartment she had rented for the time being. Striding away she caught a glimpse of a dog, bristled and growling, sniffing the back of her bench.

* * *

The room was small but practical, combining a little kitchen corner and living room. She had got used to avoiding settling in wherever she went, thus being well prepared in case sheneeded to flee again. 

As soon as she crossed the doorway the sound of her phone made way to her conscience. Allison rushed to the receiver, picking it up on the last ring.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hi mom."

"Mom, you can't keep worrying yourself like this… I'm fine. Trust me."

"And you believe everything the tabloids write? I mean, how could I possibly be talking to you, if I were shot eleven times?"

The lies were tingling in her throat, despite their evident noble purpose. Where the hell had she dug up that old article again? The phone buzzed on, as she struggled to hold it while wrestling with her overcoat.

"Look, I really don't the have time to argue with you right now…," she prevaricated and she set her coat on the backrest.

"Home?" she repeated with bitter irony. "I don't remember what home is anymore." She voiced her last thoughts unintentionally.

"I know."

"Bye, mom."

She sank in the chair, still holding the handset, listening to its monotonous tooting. The heavy burden she was reminded of formed into a deep sigh. Bits and parts of her old life came showering down on her as a flow of memories, causing her to sink deeper into her own despondency.

She could not return. This was not over. It never was.

* * *

Allison left the tea brewing and stepped into the pool of light – the bleak memory of the sun. Despite the chilliness she opened the window and sat on the sill. Dusty clouds swept across the horizon, cool wind poured in, tousling the strands of her hair. It was darker now: dyed rich brown, attuning well with her hazel eyes. 

She calmed. Though deprived of the book, she struggled now and again to regain the peace. The relief of being rid of the burden was not ultimate – in the long run her life remained a mess. The only relenting she had experienced was falling from the rooftop, the history and future of mankind spilt from her arms, vanishing into thin air in a span of a second.

It was painful, being dragged back to life, with countless mortal wounds on her body. She also recorded it as the last time she saw Simon, assuring Allison her part was done. For good. Before long, the locals had found her, bleeding. She was rushed to hospital the very next moment, an enigmatic case to all the paramedics. Having the bullets removed, she went through a rapid recovery – a miracle as they preferred to call it.

Another disturbing incident occurred when she was escaping prematurely from the hospital. There, at the front door, an elderly woman halted her, causing Allison to leap from tension. The oldster looked harmless, however, clad in rags, apparently begging for alms. She felt guilt and obligation to give her something, though she already knew she had nothing with her. Still, Allison went trough her pockets, in which she felt small pieces of metal clinking. She retrieved her hand and on her palm there were eight bullets, glistening in the sunlight. She had no recollection of how they had got there. The old woman laid her wrinkled hands around hers and leant forward, staring Allison with her moist eyes, pallid from age. The Romanian looked very old, more than a hundred years from where she was standing.

"Relicvă…" the woman whispered, causing chills run down the Allison's spine and she fled, leaving the bullets in the furrowed palms of the stranger.

The pot sent off a whining whistle, demanding her attention. Allison poured herself a cupful. It was swiftly darkening and she soon distinguished the sound of a thunderclap booming over the city. Allison shut the window, staying to view absently the sprinkles stream down the glassy surface.

The memories had proved persistent enough to trail her all the way to the western shore, off the mainland. Those dismal streets she used to stroll; its ancient churches, imbued with frankincense; the dilapidated mansion, both inviting and repugnant – this all haunted her, aching in her heart.

The tea was almost up now, the humid leaves sticking to the edges. She studied the odd pattern they formed, but it made no sense to her. At least one thing was left to chance in this world.


	2. Chapter 2

Clad in a nightgown, she wandered in the night. The circle of full moon was glaring behind the filmy drape of clouds. Allison saw herself proceeding through the thickets of canebrake, slowly nearing to a narrow water hole. Waves stirred the luminous reflection of the sky, breaking it into shards of silver beams. She felt an irresistible draft drain her deeper into the dark pool, and overwhelmed, she felt her knees give away. Forms of dark hands stretched out of the water, catching her limp body as she fell. A sensation of oblivion overtook her and eliminated all defiance. A firm hold locked carefully around her body, she sank, being pulled deeper into the dark waters. Her hand reached out towads the light until it, too, immersed into the water, leaving but faint ripples disturb the gently swaying surface.

Allison gasped for air, sitting up within the tangled sheets. Her eyes slowly began to discern the curtains and tapestry, softly illuminated by the gleaming street lighting. She was in her bedroom. Heaves of fresh air penetrated her lungs and she becalmed, the silent ticking of the clock adjusting her rampant heartbeat.

Deprived from sleep, Allison curled up in an old cosy arm chair, pulling her knees close to her body. Those moments of darkness scoured her mind until there was othng left to block the realization of how desolate she had actually become.

Standing up she opened the door to the balcony. It was still pouring. Allison stepped on the wet floor, regardless of her pyjamas becoming gradually drenched from the heavy rain.

It reminded her of another night, long ago. An attempted suicide. It was different times, other reasons. No wonder she failed, saved by a miracle… she thought back with irony. She could hear her mother repeat endlessly: 'You should thank God you're still alive.' Was that what made her study theology?

No, it was the voice in her head.

* * *

The day brought clarity and she deserted the depressing thoughts. Nonetheless, the vile weather hadn't ceased a bit. Using the day well she picked up literature left here by the previous tenant. The racks contained some oldies and classics, read and reviewed countless times. Probably the reason they were abandoned in the first place. Appreciating her new companions she picked out "The Master and Margarita" by M. Bulgakov. 

During a small break in reading she was shaken back to her real element. Suddenly, there was a sharp knocking on the door. She was instantly alarmed, thoughts charged through her mind with unaccountable speed. She had never given out her address, nor should anyone need it. Grabbing instinctively a random object of a good measure, she approached slowly to the apartment door. She listened tight. Nothing. After a minute's silence she shouted with a slight quiver in her voice: "Who's there?" Everything remained quiet. At length she dared to open the door, and found a square package on her doorstep, wrapped in brown paper. Her name and address was scribbled on it. No mark of a consignor whatsoever.

Even more than weird, she mused, but brought it in, careful not to shake it. She laid it on the carpet and slowly began to detangle the dispatch. There was another box, wrapped in just the same, though the address was different: Bucharest. She abandoned the caution and tore it open, revealing a cardboard box, used for storage.

It was from the private investigator she had hired months ago. Having been totally forgotten during the turmoil that followed, the man could have just kept the fee and the research materials. Somehow, it simply did not make any sense how or why he had found out her new location. Or how was it sent forward from the postal service, when no one came to claim it.

Inside she found a pile of newspaper cut-outs and files from several different cases, Dani Simonescu was mentioned repeatedly. There were copies of the "mystery case" at the country house. She also found a printout, with six photos of a man, an agent of Interpol.

"John Riegert," she mumbled, recognizing the face

"Speaking of the devil…"

Allison whirled around. The Lord of Sarcasm was present, supplanting her place by the bookcase. He was feeling perfectly at home, much like everywhere he went, and began thumbing the volumes piled on the table.

Despite herself she granted a smile at the pun.

"Still keeping your eye on me?"

He raised an eyebrow, peering over the book.

"Let's just say, Allison, I like paying attention to my former associates."

"And what situation does this concept place me?"

"A potential resident of my quarters, like any other of your kind."

"Thanks, but I have something else in my schedule…" She made an attempt to resume to the package.

"Be in no hurry. Many would prefer the other option, considering who await you on the other side. After all, is it really worth the effort?"

"In Heaven, there is God," she insisted with exasperation.

"How do you know that?" he inquired, a triumphant smile flickering in the corners of his mouth. Checkmate.


	3. Chapter 3

Sunday. The sombreness in the weather had relented to a milder atmosphere. The cobblestones shone splendidly in the sunlight, providing but slight warmth to the pigeons, pottering interminably to and fro around the square. An elderly lady was spilling crumbs to the feathered flock. Allison watched them from the lack of anything better. Each handful unleashed an avalanche of wings and peaks. For some reason, the woman gave her a generous smile, which she felt obligation to return.

The bell sent forth its metallic toll, an ancient resonance, solemn and deep. Glad in rich fretwork, the huge wooden doors were gaping invitingly. It had been quite a while since she last visited one. Somehow she had been avoiding any contact with Allison stepped over the doorway, finding the inside of the gothic cathedral much more sophisticated. Numerous columns supporting high vaults lead to red-carpeted altar. Iridescent light from the stained glass faintly illuminated the soothing dimness of the hall. The building was apparently prepared for visitors – there was a sign implying to the need to pay for taking pictures inside, a farther corner was reserved for the gift shop. She proceeded to the left side nave, passing by the niches occupied solemn statues of white marble.

A clink in the chest and Allison reached for a candle, lighting in memory of Dani. And her parents, and Ion, and the dead little girl, and Dylan, Father Constantine, the police officers and many others who had fallen for the same cause. She would need a myriad of candles to commemorate everyone involved in the prophecy, everyone but her. It still hung on her, like a curse, a promised salvation, never achieved.

Allison proceeded towards the altar, but stopped at a marble statue. The chiselled features of the saint displayed an expression of unusual serenity and perception. There was something elusive to that veiled stone figure captivating her whole attention. An arrows was pierced through her body, her left hand fixed around a scroll. Allison touched the cool base of the statue with her quivering fingers, groping for support as she felt the ground give away under her feet.

She flinched as a hand was poised on her shoulder, though in an affable manner. It was a man, assumedly in his thirties, groomed and neat looking, a dark overcoat cast loosely over his shoulders. Allison saw no sign whether he was a cleric or simply a visitor.

"Are you okay, Miss? You looked as if you were fainting."

"I'm fine, thank you," she observed him with further suspicion, rising way too often when regarding the people that crossed her way, "no need for concern."

The stranger was tall and strongly built, as if being the living regeneration of his Norman roots. His placid blue eyes and fair shoulder-length hair tied back did not imply otherwise. Another angel? The voice felt sonorous in an amphoric way. Or was it merely her imagination? On the other hand he appeared perfectly human.

"You're looking quite lost to me." He skimmed her hair with a faint smile. There was something highly distinctive in that act. She receded instantly, arms crossed, brows pursing with apprehension.

The man emitted a short candid laugh, "I'm sorry. I don't mean to intrude… My name is Jonathan." He gestured towards the row of benches, "Would you… would you like to sit down with me?"

Allison submitted to the entreaty, the distrust slowly dissolving. They sat, both viewing the mighty interior: Jonathan undisturbed in his a blissful serenity, Allison glancing around in anxious anticipation. She looked at him. There was something incomprehensible in the manner he regarded the surroundings.

"The church dates back to the 11th century," he stated as-a-matter-of-factly. "The stone building took nearly three hundred years to complete. It was meant to be much larger, but like always, the plans changed and a lot of which it was meant to be was left out…"

Allison listened to Jonathan's steady voice as he went on explaining the history of the cathedral.

"Do you work here, for the church?" She asked when the man stopped.

"Sort of… I like helping people." He faced her for the first time in a while, "I mean, who wouldn't want to save the lives of others?"

It hit her close. Allison rose, quitting the unpleasant situation.

"I'm really feeling better now."

Jonathan gave her an odd look.

"Take good care, Allison."

She walked out in the sunlight, suddenly getting the hunch. She was absolutely sure she had not given him her name. Turning on the spot she dashed back in. A few people lingered after the mass, but no sign of the Norman whatsoever. She inquired the lady at the reception table, but she shook her head, negating seeing anyone befitting the description.

Mystified, she left the cathedral. The shadows were elongated under the clipped days of fading light and formed an intricate pattern of pilasters on the square. She looked back into the setting sun, spotting a gargoyle-like form perching on the roof peak. Allison squinted in effort to make out what it was, but was punched by someone in the crowd. A leaflet was stuck in her hand and she dropped it, startled from the message it carried.


	4. Chapter 4

The 13th of November was blessed with extraordinarily fine weather. Allison had the final walk around this city, before leaving. She was at peace. Strange, how seeing something for the last time makes it new. From the cobble stones on the pavement to the mountains beyond, she sensed the relentless spirit of the Earth persisting regardless of who passed. What a wonderful feeling it was not to care any more.

The sunset was early, yet splendid. She witnessed the dusk fall over the bare trees and the cowering houses. The surroundings sank into the dark void. Fractions of the conversation with Derek were still chiming in her ears, he must have passed the greetings by now. Allison made the last arrangements, sorting the books and notes she had brought with her, the dissertation she finished last night.

She sat in the dark as if it were a power outage. Her mind was crystal clear, she had everything thought through: all she longed for was abatement – to wake up from this nightmare.

"I've come to decision," she uttered into the void. Seconds passed. He would come.

"Are you sure?" A low voice sounded from the shadow. He took a step closer, into the stream of light from the window. The street lighting was off, but the crescent of moon served the purpose just as well. "This is a step you _cannot_ take back."

Allison stood up facing him as he neared, leaving but a small gap in-between. He stared at her intently. Despite the groundwork she shivered with the tension, for both: what was and what was yet to come. He traced her face with the back of his hand, from the temple all the way down to her chin, as if measuring. Her breathing calmed into deep breaths, preparation was everything. She saw another flash of his real form, but didn't rebuke. The Devil seemed to hesitate, staring at her as if seeing the first…or rather, the last time. On his grave countenance no hints of contemplation shone trough.

They stood still, their silhouettes perfectly traced in front of the window, his rimmed with silver light. Allison felt warmth and trust, though he exercised neither. All the meaning of the world seemed to be held within his dark composure and the anticipation of the moment. Then he pressed his forefinger on her mouth and leant to kiss her on the forehead. Her spinning mind recognised the feel of Satan's lips on her skin, leaving a burning mark that endured longer… The room melted into liquefied streams of blue and black, shutting her mind with a full gasp of relief.

Allison fell, slumped with a heavy thud right where she was standing. The devil lowered his hand, looming over her lifeless body. Moments later, he knelt down by her. He tilted his head, marvelling the mystery of death for the thousandth time. Finally he produced a small shiny object from the pocket of his coat. In slow motion, as if bearing something immense, he poised the silvery coin of redemption on her lips.

He rose, the false reflections of his nonexistent soul tainted black from exhaustion. He towered above her lifeless body, staring ahead into the dark void. Then he left, not to be accounted for throughout many years.

* * *

The morning was bleak and brittle. The first snow had suffused the pavements with an untouched white coat. Through the frosty mist, the mountain range appeared unchanged. Jackdaws were circling over the arousing city like hungry vultures in search of tragedies. Today they remained sated – probably due to last night's feast – and made their rounds in silence. 


End file.
